


got a crush on you

by moonfulls



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fraternities & Sororities, Friendship, Gen, Hannah the cat, Humor, Luke Bankole shirtless, Multi, Nick accidentally makes the most of his Ivy League education?, Serena and Fred as mom and dad, The Eye are a dudebro collective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfulls/pseuds/moonfulls
Summary: Nick follows June into the girls' bathroom, gets elected as Secretary of The Eye and manages to have his heart ripped from his chest on a daily basis. Oh, and if Serena-Joy could please stop sending him off to run her errands, that would be great thanks. College!AU





	got a crush on you

**Author's Note:**

> something light to add to the fandom. I love Nick, the poor pathetic idiot who just wants to be left alone to watch compilation videos of soldiers returning from tour and surprising their dogs.

_**It's cool, not tryin to put a rush on you** _  
_**I had to let you know that I got a crush on you** _

.

He'd rather be in his room playing the new Overwatch with Warren than finding Serena's shopping list of books from the library.

'I'm swamped with this campaign, Nick. I just need this one favour!'

Nick drags his flannel pajamas up over his "Sunday" shorts and pulls on a faded blue hoodie which read "Kiss me I'm a communist" across the front. He's pretty sure it's Glen's. He doesn't bother with shoes instead slips his socked feet into sandals and makes his way down to Butler Library, a-la Mark Zuckerberg.

"The Christian Imagination", "So you're thinking of Immaculate conception?", "How to start a #fam." Jesus Serena, what the fuck. Nick looks at the incredible list of theology texts and quietly bites into his fist. He did not get up from the warmth of his bed on a Sunday for this.

It's common knowledge around campus that; promise ring bearing, student council leader and potential Summa Cum Laude, Serena Joy; was a straight-laced, chastity belt wearing, Quaker. When she's not enthusiastically handing out white shiny brochures claiming, "the end is nigh!" down the university mall, Serena Joy could most certainly be found in the tranquil gardens of Avery Plaza in a prayer circle amongst Columbian members of the megachurch 'Gilead for all'– a cult – in his opinion.

'It all works out really. I'm a Theology major. Which means when I'm praying, I'm studying and when I'm not praying, I'm studying.'

'And your Law major?' Nick asks as he gorges on his Chow Mein.

'I have plans for a total policy overhaul. For a more biologically focused future.' She looks him dead in the eyes. Nick's chopsticks stop mid-way to his mouth and a moment of silence passes between them.

He snorts.

They'd become quite great acquaintances since his first day at college. She had volunteered to tour a batch of freshman around campus and taken a liking to the mysterious, bushy-browed, boy from Michigan. He took one look at her "Jesus take the wheel" pin and groaned inwardly. He always attracted the weird types.

What he  _was_ attracted to were the flirty, feminist types. Blondes with too many admirers and lesbian roommates.

_June Osbourne._

He was attracted to June Osbourne.

The girl-of-his-dreams, who was walking into the library with her steaming cup of matcha. Her hair brilliantly curled and fluffy in the afternoon light. He doesn't even berate himself for noticing these things. He's been in love with the gender studies minor for about four months now since they first shared an uber down to Lafayette one Friday night. Sure there was her friend Emily in between them and June had not even noticed he was in the car, but  _they shared an uber okay? :) :):):):)_

He pretends to reach out for "The Lord and Legumes, A Vatican approved guide for Celiacs" as she passes by and realises he should have worn proper shoes or at least brushed his teeth today.

* * *

 

She's almost never there for the 11 am Tuesday lectures, but Nick counts on her attendance at their 'Rebels and Revolutions of 21st Century' tutorial later in the afternoon.

It's a far cry from his usual Mechanical Engineering units, but it's his last elective. The hour goes by quick enough. With almost every eyeliner wearing, bisexual Bernie Bro in the class declaring their opinions at every opportune moment and Professor Lydia at the helm of it all. He does nothing but day-dream to the soft scent of Jasmine and Vetiver that lingers to him from the back of the room where June and Moira and their group of pro-choice, new age cheerleaders discuss Benazir Bhutto's legacy.

'Stop being a creep, go talk to her.' Warren says, not looking up from the heavy textbook written completely in Latin.

'Who?'

'Osbourne. We know about you following her into the girls' bathroom.'

'How do you kno- I mean, that's not true.' Nick defends.

Look, he didn't do it  _on purpose._  June had been talking animatedly with Moira after class one day and he'd been following them at a distance. It was only when she walked into a cubicle, and he found himself surrounded by a  _very_ bitchy conglomerate of girls, he realised where he was.

Warren knows otherwise but drops the conversation as Professor Lydia sends them a spine-chilling glare.

* * *

After a week of constant back and forth from Butler to her dorm, Nick puts his foot down.

'Nick, just one more favour. Please. I'm running out of time!'

'You said that last time Serena.' Nick exclaims lazily. He had arrived half an hour ago and moulded himself perfectly onto the velvet beanbag in the corner of her room. Which happened to have the most brilliant view of New York. 'I'm sure one your lackeys would be happy to volunteer. What about that one guy who's always following you around.' He jokes about Serena's boyfriend. 'Dark hair, beady eyes. SPINELESS.'

'He's not –'

'-Fran, Fabio-.' Serena throws a cupcake shaped pillow at his head.

'- _Out!_ '

His midterms go off without a hitch. He politely refuses his brother and sister-in-law's invitation to join them at their new ranch in Montana. Instead, he plans to spend all weekend drinking his sorrows at the jazz club downtown.

None of this comes to fruition as Warren and the rest of the Eye place a bag over his head and drive an army of Jeeps upstate to Newport.

It dawns on him exactly what the occasion of the party is when the lights dim and bottles of champagne are lit with firecrackers and an all too familiar birthday song becomes increasingly audible.

'We mean it when we say "Always Watching".' Fred, VP of the frat ( _how?!_ ) and Serena's boyfriend ( _no really, how?!_ ), quotes the motto of 'The Eye' with a light slap on Nick's shoulder.

The statement is friendly enough. Suggesting the boys always looked out for one another. However, coming from Fred, it sounded threatening and sexually suggestive? Regardless, he thanks all his brothers for rounding up almost every sophomore at Columbia for his birthday. Even if they were all shirtless and hollering like it's the fourth of July.

Janine walks toward him slowly from one end of the room. Holding a three-tier, red-velvet birthday cake. He can only just make out her eyes and red curly hair behind it.

'Make a wish!' she exclaims, which is followed by more hoots and hollering. Nick sees Serena laughing with the crowd and shakes his head in mock indignation before closing his eyes.

A slow drum roll spreads across the room as he thinks of what he wants for his birthday.

A better dorm room. To find his missing glasses. To find his missing hoodie (he's sure Glen's taken it). For his brother to get better. He definitely wants that fucking internship at Tesla. A better tute partner next term.

Nick's about the make one last wish before the voice in his head is drowned out by Warren shouting at him to hurry up.

'Alright, alright!' He opens his eyes and blows out all 20 candles. The room erupts in a collective cheer as toilet paper rolls are thrown about as an alternative to confetti, the DJ has decided to induct him into his 20's by now playing the "Thong Song".

He cuts a small bite-sized piece of cake and looks over to Serena. He imagines her to be the only one here deserving of the first bite. Despite their differences, she was his one true friend amongst all the classist, elitist, East Coast yuppies.

But in Serena's spot, his eyes meet the blue of a different blonde.

It's June Osbourne.

Here, on his birthday.

Smiling at him.

For a second the world stops for him to admire her in all her sweet, cheerleader-feminist glory. She's wearing a gold dress with fringes that catch the light with every movement, curled blonde hair and the delicious smell of Jasmine and Vetiver confirms this isn't just a dream. That the girl from his fantasies is really looking at him, standing three feet away and is now touching his arm.

'Happy Birthday, Nick.' She looks like she wants to laugh like she knows the power she holds over him.

'Thanks,' He says. 'For coming here, I mean.' He scratches the back of his head and scolds himself for not being the suave, sexy, cool Don Juan he usually is.

He's imagined this moment for months, now only to be at a loss for words. 'I'm sorry you drove up to Newport for this.' He gestures lamely, to the ever-increasing crowd of party goers.

'It's a great party.' She says with a raised eyebrow. 'I just didn't realise it would be so crowded,' She signals to the half-naked sophomore population of Columbia. '…or casual.'

'I'm glad you came, June.' He hasn't stopped taking her in. The soft baby hairs on her forehead, the light sheen of sweat on her neck, the way her eyes wildly scanned the room, glittering in excitement. 'I want to write songs about your eyes.'

'What?'

Nick chokes a little on his cake.

'Ahh… how long have you known about this surprise?'

'Well, Warren invited the whole cheer team. I was meant to visit my mom in Vermont. She's got a new girlfriend she wanted me to meet. But then they went off on a last minute cruise of Canada. Also, I'm so sorry I didn't get you a present Nick,' She says, placing her hand back on his arm. 'You understand, don't you?'

Nick feels the effect of the countless patron shots catching up to him, between that and the beer-pong before and the Russian vodka currently in his hand; he's starting to feel a bit dizzy, warm and a little daring.

Her hand on him sparks the nerves on his skin and sends  _crazy, sex_  signals to his brain.

Inebriated, he no longer trusts himself to speak. Instead, he nods violently. Yes. He very much understands. As a consolation, however, would she like to fuck him in the back of his newly gifted AMG?

 _God_ , he's drunk  _and_ horny.

Right. In. Front. Of the girl of his dreams.

'How'd you get here? he asks.

'Ugh, Moira dragged me out of my onesie this morning. You know Moira, Nick? My boyfriend's sister?'

'Your boyfriend?'

'No, Moira.' She says again.

'No, I know Moira.'

'Right, she drove me here.'

The room suddenly feels like a vacuum, an invisible entity was sucking all the air out from inside and around him.

Nick tells June he needs to sit down for a bit. He finds a spot on the couch between Warren and Janine making out on one side and a passed-out Martha on the other. June asks if he wants more cake but he declines. She says she wants to introduce him to her boyfriend and walks away in search of him.

The party runs well through the night as Martha wakes up, offers him her blunt, then joins in on the celebration, Janine and Warren break up twice,  _again_ , Nick blows out  _another_ cake, absent-mindedly accepts more drinks and barely acknowledges the frisky freshman who linger a little too long when they reach out to kiss him happy birthday.

Fred and Serena watch him closely as he drinks past his limit and becomes a moody buzzkill at his own birthday. It's just about enough when they stop him from leaving a voicemail to his ex-girlfriend, telling her she could do better.

'Alright, that's it. Let's get you to bed.' Serena lifts him off the couch, her boxing arms no match for his lanky, unworthy figure. Fred holds him from the other side, visibly making a face at the strong smell of alcohol emanating from Nick.

'You guys…,' Nick looks blearily at Fred, then Serena, then Fred and back to Serena in her expensive green silk slip. 'You guys, are like my parents, you know. You're my dad, Fred. Thank you for always looking out for me dad.'

'Alright, son.' Fred snorts. Serena glares at him. They carry his heavy body up the stairs and down the long corridor, into the private wing of the manor.

'And thanks mom, Serena-Joy, thank you for giving me your good looks and smarts.'

'Hey!' Fred cries.

* * *

'You've been stalking.'

'It's research.'

'She doesn't know you exist.'

' _She_  said happy birthday to me. Fred, she put her hand on my arm.' Fred let out an exasperated sigh.

'Fine. You're the guy whose party she was at  _because_  her lesbian mom canceled their stay-cation last minute.'

Seeking help from Fred was his last resort. Glen had done all he could do, claiming the sleuthing and sneaking needed to take a backseat this time of the year, what with the World Solar Challenge around the corner.

Warren had been no help, suggesting they kidnap the guy and beat him to a pulp, and Serena had laughed him straight out of her room.

'Then she brought her well-to-do boyfriend at some frat party upstate for a good time.'

Fred had a terrible habit of mistaking disparagement as  _conversation_.

'Thanks for the vote of confidence, Fred.'

Nick follows the Law Society President into his Transatlantic Negotiations Moot. He concedes that as also being the VP of the Eye, Fred had to have some insight into the power players of the university.

'Look, he's on a scholarship, and chummy with the Dean and that's all I'll say Nick.' Fred finally reveals with a dramatic sigh. 'God Forbid, I've tainted myself enough with your talk of pre-marital sexual relations,' he declares loudly for the passers-by to hear.

Nick rolls his eyes.

Fred was in constant fear that 'Friends of Gilead' had eyes and ears all over Columbia. That somehow, they would get back to Serena with all his transgressions. Not that Fred was even as remotely discrete as he believed he was.

'Say Nick, have you ever considered running for leadership?' Fred suggests off-handedly, clearly no longer interested in Nick's topic of conversation.

'For the Eye?' he asks, stopping in his steps.

'No, for the Department of Hygiene and Waste.  _Yes_ for the Eye.' Even though Fred has a bunch of brown folders threatening to spill from his arms, he refuses Nick's assistance and proceeds to rush up the stairs to the gallery. 'I think you'd be a great asset to our cabinet. With the president graduating next year, I'll take over from him and you'd be a shoe-in as my second in command.'

The thought has never crossed Nick's mind. Just as he never aspired to be in the club. These things were always sort of  _thrust_  upon him. Nick could only credit his sheer luck to answering all their riddles and completing the hazing rituals in record time. There was still a picture hung up in the hidden club lounge of his inebriated head between the breasts of a Jezebel Transvestite from his initiation.

'I don't know, Fred. I'm not really into  _"leading_   _the masses"_.' Nick laughs, mainly to himself as Fred refuses to look up from the speech cards in his right palm. Nick wonders, as always, what Serena sees in the man.

'Just as well. As VP you'd be doing my bidding. Think about it.' They finally have eye contact as Fred steps into the lecture theatre. 'And Nick,' he says before the doors are about to close. 'His name is Luke Bankole.'

* * *

June Osbourne is in a long-term, serious relationship with her high school sweetheart.

Luke Bankole, Nick finds out through an encrypted message on a reddit forum from Glen, is an architect major with a minor in criminal psychology and has a penchant for fishing and cooking. In his spare time, he volunteers at a kindergarten for refugee children and is an active supporter of Senator Kamala Harris.

The guy is an upper-middle-class dreamboat.

He wears cashmere sweaters from Ralph Lauren and jeans from Calvin Klein. Both of which accentuate his amazing pectorals and a fantastic ass.

Nick cannot fathom why he's never come across the guy before. It's almost coincidental that Luke spends most of his afternoons in the 3D labs of Nick's own Mechanical Engineering faculty. He parties equally hard at Nick's favourite bars and clubs downtown. Not that Nick follows him for a week straight or anything.

'He's perfect. How could I compete with him?'

'You're both mentally challenged!' Serena screams in his ears over the blaring screeches of Nicki Minaj.

'What was that?!' He shouts back with a straw between his lips. They're at Up and Down supporting Janine's Australian DJ friend on his club night debut. Nick rolls his eyes every time the guy  _ironically_  plays Hilary Duff before switching it up to something equally asinine like a Skrilles remix of  _My Heart Will Go On_.

'She's a slutty vegan, who smells of patchouli and bread pudding. Why would you  _want_ ** _that_**.'

'You won't understand Serena. It's different with her,' he ignores her insult. 'I get butterflies when I see this chick. Actual goosebumps appear on my arm when she walks past me. That must mean something right?'

'It means nothing when it's one-sided.'

'I think I  _lo_ -.'

'-noooope.' Serena clasps a hand over his moving mouth. 'Stop right there, mister. Just shuuut the fuck up for a second before you say something you regret.'

* * *

So the girl-of-his-dreams turned bane-of-his-existence turned girl-he-might-just-have-a-chance with becomes the girl-nowhere-to-be-found in his junior year. He passes 'Rebels and Revolutions of 21st Century' with a B and somehow manages to get elected as secretary of The Eye. In part, Nick's glad it's not the VP spot. But Fred, now the President, ignores protocol and treats him like he is, much to the  _actual_  VP's chagrin.

Nick gets a summer job at the DMV and honestly, he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but Tesla offers him an early grad internship under strict conditions of him gaining some real-life work experience before he steps into their warehouse. It's the closest form of work he can get in the industry without having to move to San Francisco or Germany.

Then he leaves his dorm for a low-rise apartment on West 28th, to be closer to work and as far away as possible from Glen.

Glen, however, finally manages to project  _some_ human emotion as he watches Nick take the last of the furniture out. He hands Nick the missing hoodie as a parting gift and says a few words of farewell.

'Good times.'

It's one of the very few times Nick hears the boy speak.

When he tries on the hoodie in his new flat, it's much too small for him.

With his last elective out of the way, Nick's classes are here-forth solely physics based, with no room for politics, business or arts. Although, being good and interested in what he does, means his workload is much easier to handle now that all his subjects are interconnected and free of female distractions.

There is one girl in his DEs and Vector Calculus for Engineers class but she mainly keeps to herself when not one-upping every other male in the tutorials.

Serena Joy leaves on a year abroad program to Oman, interning for Sultan Qaboos under the guise of research for her "Approaches to the Arab-Israeli Conflict" thesis, but is secretly studying the absolute patriarchal monarchy. No doubt hoping to have Fred implement most of her learnings when he runs for Office.

This leaves Nick with only Warren to spend time with during the coming months. Warren is on-again with Janine, bulking for draft season and constantly loiters around the apartment. He says the dorms are just not the same without Nick, or Fred or even Serena barging into his room at any given moment.

After a particularly bad Monday at work, Nick asks Warren for some privacy. He wants some peace and quiet. Warren doesn't look away from the TV playing reruns of last year's games and shoves more corn chips into his mouth.

'You gotta stop being sad bro, what do you have to be so sad about? Look around you, look at life.'

When Nick looks around him he sees boxes still begging to be unpacked and a kitchen with no real food.

When he looks at his life, he wants to cry.

.

Not that Nick's been counting, but in the six months since he's last seen June Osbourne giggling into Luke's warm, manly arms, he had begun aggressively thrusting himself into the New York dating pool. Tinder was full of girls wanting to get straight to business, which seemed like a nice gesture at first but began to lose its novelty after a while. The jazz bars downtown were full of literature majors who wanted  _nothing_ to do with men that weren't going to fund their over-the-top indulgent Instagram lifestyles. Then he dates girls from the science faculty, who pay no attention to the rumours of him being a cuck and are  _logical_ ,  _mathematical_  and to a certain degree:  _interested_ in  _him_ and not interested in the asshole architect Lucas Bankoles of the world.

He dates a Nicole for a month, then a Kate for two after that. But none of their glossy brunette waves or surgically shaped teeth hold his interest. They call him callous and unemotional and then he realises that they're  _psychology_  majors. Which isn't a real science at all.

So, he continues to throw himself into an aggressive cycle of work, study, secretarial duties, parties, building carbon powered washing machines in Thermodynamics, and more parties. In fact, Nick's 'no-compromise' rule has him partying so much so that the picture of him hung up on the club lounge is replaced by a different picture of him urinating on the Chancellor's Bentley.

With a headache, bare feet, and a half-empty bottle of pressed kale juice, Nick walks up the stairs to his flat. Longing for a cold shower and hungry for the leftover lasagne from yesterday's lunch. Just as he's about to close his door, he hears a small squeal. It's a yellow Burmese about to be squished by his door. He picks up the feline and it licks Nick's two-day stubble in adoration.

'Hello, Hannah.' He reads the silver tag around its neck, the cat meows back before jumping out of his arms and walking up the stairs of the building. It looks back and waits for Nick when he doesn't follow.

'You want me to come up?' He isn't sure why he's speaking to the cat in human English but it seems to be working. He follows the pet up two flights of stairs to the apartment right above his. 'Is this where you live?' He knocks on the slightly open door and waits for a reception but there is no acknowledgment from inside. Nick picks up Hannah and walks in slowly.

'Hello?' He says to the walls but is met with comfortable silence. He looks around the living room with the tasteful green potted plants beside the dull gold floor lamps against the white on white Damascus wallpaper. The square navy velvet couch with colourfully patterned cushions are very much different from his embarrassingly plain grey set from IKEA. He looks around a bit more at the custom marble benchtop in the kitchen, the lined white cabinets and notices the empty bowl on the floor beside the fridge.

'Ahh, so you must be hungry.' Hannah nuzzles a confirmation against his ankle. He reaches for the tuna on top of the fridge and empties the can onto the bowl as the cat digs in.

'Can I help you?' Asks a voice from above him. Nick looks up to see a dark brown man and squints through his sunglasses.

It's the sculpted body and face of Luke Bankole, the architect.

'Hey, uhh, your cat was lost and … hungry and I'm just bringing her back home.' Nick's at a loss for words as he rises from his crouched position, coming up about half a head shorter than Luke. 'Sorry man, I'll just leave.'

'That's funny, I just fed her. Where did you find her?' Luke picks up Hannah mid-meal.

'She was outside my door.'

'And you know she lives here …how?'

'She lead me here.' And that _definitely_ sounded more stupid coming from his mouth than it did in his head.

How could he not have known this apartment belonged to America's Next Top Bachelor? What with the Persian rugs, burning organic soy candles, smooth Sunday morning records playing by the balcony.

Nick can't help but scowl inwardly at Luke's gorgeously messed up bed-head, his lean cut body, clothed only in Dior by Raf pajama bottoms. Nick looks down at his own flannel shirt and ripped jeans.

'Please put on a shirt.'

'What?'

'I asked how long you've been living here. I just moved in a while ago myself.'

'Oh,' Luke shrugs and walks out of the kitchen, Hannah still in his arms and his smooth, toned, back muscles taunting Nick. 'Babe!' he calls out towards the bedroom before he steps onto the balcony, looking down at Manhattan with a serene look on his face.

'You're Nick, right?' Luke says as he lights up a clove cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke into the chilly Manhattan morning. 'I'm Luke-'

' –The Architect.'

'What?'

When Nick shakes his head and pretends to not have said anything. Luke smirks and looks away.

'You're funny Nick,' He takes a drag. 'June never mentioned that.'

'June?' 

A slim figure from the corner of his vision walks towards them from the dimly lit hallway. She's dressed in white linen pajamas and has a clear glass of water with a lemon in it.

'Nick! What a surprise.' She envelops him in a hug, it's a full-bodied, warm embrace to reward the months of painful jerking off in the shower to the memory of her hand on his arm.

He discretely pinches himself to wake up, afraid this was all a freak fever dream. 

June hands him the drink and for the first time since he's seen this girl laughing on the streets of Morningside, she looks at him. Really looks at him.

He wonders what it's like for her to see his stubble. His matted hair and red flannel shirt, undone from the night before. What did the back of his neck look like from her seat in the last row of 'Rebels and Revolutions'? Does she too, imagine the jasmine and vetiver scent of her body mingling with the neroli of his? Are the lines of his fingerprints just as a mystery to her as they are to him when imagining his fingers swimming above the parting ocean of her lips, grabbing at her thighs, skiing down her delicate spine?

For a second, her eyes darken and her lids become hooded. But June looks down before anything more can be deciphered. She steps forward and kisses him under his jaw.

She leaves to huddle around Luke and their little cat, both cooing at her against the warm streaming sun.

'Will you join us for breakfast?' June asks, still petting the fluffy content thing.

The invitation is casual enough but he should decline. Nick's never been in such close proximity to June for this much amount of time and he isn't sure if it's that or this happy couple image of them or the bottle of Hennessy he ingested last night, that's inducing the nausea which is threatening to procure  _ **real**_  physical effects.

But as a plate of vegan cacao pancakes doused in lavender honey is placed in front of him at the breakfast table, there's no place he'd rather be, Nick thinks. His sunglasses perched on his nose, crusted vomit on the ankle of his black jeans and a content cat on his lap. No other place, than sitting beside a topless, sleepy Luke and across a giddy, gorgeous June.


End file.
